Lying Around
As luck would have it, both of my siblings turned out to be boys. One older. One younger. I was mercilessly sandwiched in the middle. Eking out an existence each day, barely surviving, I pressed forward against their treachery. My brothers might have a different take on the situation, but they are not writing this story.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my brothers and have long since forgiven them for all their trespasses against me. However, I consider myself deprived in having only brothers and no sisters. Certainly my mother wanted a little girl and, now that I have three myself, I can truly understand why she did. Anyone can plainly see when compared to little boys, little girls bear a far closer resemblance to actual human beings, but my reasons for wanting a sister had nothing to do with any of that.
Sean, a friend of mine, once told me that he had regularly dated his sister’s friends throughout adolescence. He even met his wife because she was his sister’s roommate in college. What a racket! Every guy should be as fortunate. Well, I wasn’t so blessed as to have a “Love Connection” hostess built right into my family unit. Girls were to remain a mystery to me longer than they did to most guys. I didn’t figure them out until…., well, never mind, I guess I’ll always remain a step behind in that regard.
Perhaps my predicament explains why, in the very distant past, I used to persecute my younger brother, Brian. In fact, that has to be the reason. There isn't any other logical explanation. Deep in the recesses of my mind I knew, instinctively, how advantageous it would be to have a younger sister, but what did I have? A crummy little brother. No wonder I felt awkward around girls. No wonder I couldn’t get any dates. It had to be my little brother Brian’s fault! The way I see it is that my brain, all on its own, concluded subconsciously, that Brian was the source of most of my problems. It was only justice that he suffer accordingly. Fortunately, today it is universally accepted that “society” is the root cause of all of our faults, therefore, I shouldn't be held responsible for the atrocities I heaped upon Brian.
Years ago, however, my antiquated parental units saw it differently. I was punished for the slightest infractions, like knocking out one of Brian’s permanent front teeth, cutting his forehead open with a tennis ball can, and making him smell my sweaty, stinky feet. The latter probably explains some of his strange behavior today. Even if he didn’t suffer permanent brain damage from the ordeal, his olfactory nerve was probably rendered completely useless.
Truthfully, I can't remember being actually punished for any of the physical damage I caused to Brian. In fact, as I recall, despite my constant harassment of Brian, I was rarely reprimanded for any of it. My parents didn't relish punishing us, but sometimes I committed infractions that they felt required their immediate attention. I suppose their goal was to ensure that I would never do whatever I was doing ever again. What were those violations? Unfortunately, I can’t remember many of the specifics, with one exception - the Big Lie.
I knew after I was caught in the Big Lie, I was really in for it. Dread filled the air as I awaited the punishment that was coming to me when my father returned home from work. Since my mother didn’t punish me on the spot, it was a sure sign that I had stepped far over the line this time. Delaying punishment was not her style. My parents employed completely opposite methods when it came to punishment. Why were their styles so different? Did they evolve in different directions while Dad was away in Vietnam, sort of like the strange creatures of Australia, separated from the other continents, that took a different route in their development than the animals in the rest of the world?
If my parents disciplinary styles were animals, Dad would definitely be the “elephant.” When tasked to deal out the corrective action, my father was stoic and dignified. He never showed any anger no matter how bad the infraction. He was just doing what had to be done to motivate us from the wrong path to the right one. I, for one, became very motivated to find that right path just before receiving what was coming to me. Like the elephant, Dad also had size. None of us would ever be as large as Dad who was 6 foot tall and as heavy as 220 pounds.
Dad's target was always the soft, padded buttocks. Just a few swats and it was over. “You shouldn't choke your brother, blah, blah, blah...,” he might say. Who listens to a lecture at a time like that? Just get it over with! I couldn't process too much information pre-spanking.
That pretty much sums up the downside of having Dad dole out the punishment. On the upside, with his technique, you knew exactly what you were up against. The same could not be said of my mother’s technique. Actually, referring to my mom’s method of punishment as a technique sort of makes it sound sophisticated. Sophistication had nothing to do with it. You may as well refer to a pig’s technique of eating.
Mom's disciplinary style could best be labeled the “duck-billed platypus.” There wasn't any rhyme or reason to it, which was understandable. Trapped in a home with three boys only a few years apart in age must have been almost enough to drive my mom insane, especially when she couldn't rely on my father's help during his two tours in Vietnam, each about a year long.
Mom may have been patient, but when we finally pushed her over the edge – look out! She would take hold of the nearest object that remotely suited her needs in the same manner as a guy, focused on his weekend do-it-yourself project, uses the closest object as a hammer to get the job done. People who say women aren't as mechanical as men have never seen my mom wield a spatula, wooden spoon or ruler. The problem for mom was that she wasn't that talented at racquet sports. If she had been a little more proficient at tennis, badminton or, at least, ping-pong, she might have been a threat. Mom was rarely able to make contact with the skinny, toothpick-sized legs my brothers and I were sporting at the time, especially when we were jumping around the room.
Who had the more effective style, Mom or Dad? For overall effect, I’d have to give the nod to Dad; the psychological factor tipping the balance. Mom’s forays were too spontaneous and unpredictable. However, for us, the anticipation of what was coming was worse than the punishment itself. Dad had Mom beat hands down in the anticipation department.
This dread of anticipation was to reach a new and higher plateau the day of the Big Lie. That day, in the spring of 1973 in Northern Virginia, started in a very ordinary fashion, probably differing little from the start of similar days for the Titanic, the Hindenburg, or almost any Amtrak departure. I was in the sixth grade. A friend of mine, Art, was coming over for a visit. Brian was in the basement doing what he did best – watching TV. My older brother, Andy, was most likely outside catching a frog, snake, or some similar creature. Dad was at the Pentagon and due to return at his usual time of six p.m. As Mom was heading out of the house to go shopping, she turned to me and doled out the usual dreaded task of practicing the piano.
I’d been taking piano since kindergarten, but you wouldn’t know it. By the sixth grade I displayed about as much talent on the piano as a trained parrot, and that’s assuming the parrot only uses its beak. Throw in the feet and the parrot had me beat, no contest. It’s a long shot, but maybe if I had actually practiced a few times, I would have shown a little more proficiency. I wasn’t much for practicing in the traditional sense of the word. To me, just being assigned a practice session was close enough to the real thing. It's sort of like putting vegetables on your plate, which if consumed, would be very healthy for you. Only, you don’t actually eat the vegetables. Their mere presence should suffice as proof of your intention to be healthy. Why go to the effort of actually placing the unsavory objects into your mouth? Any kid knows that it's much wiser to save valuable stomach space for something more useful, like dessert.
In my life, piano practice and vegetables occupied a similar place of importance. I deduced the situation to be the following:
1. Mom tells me to practice the piano.
2. I don’t actually get within ten feet of the piano,
but I do glance at it from a safe distance.
3. I do something more enriching, like
watching “Get Smart” reruns.
4. Later, Mom queries me, “Did you practice
your piano today?”
5. I answer, “Yes.”
6. She accepts my answer.
7. Mom’s happy.
8. I’m happy.
9. The world is a better place.
Naturally, I’d never develop into the concert pianist my mom always wanted, but then again, how many concert pianists know what “Nitrowhisper’n” is? (“Get Smart” episode number 82).
Our “system” worked wonderfully for months. In fact, I became so accustomed to the system, I rarely considered practicing the piano at all. My mom accepted my word as though I were the Pope. We had a pretty nice and tidy arrangement going. Then, she had to go and screw it all up.
After Mom left the house with assurances from me that the day’s practice would be accomplished, I settled down in front of the TV in the basement with Art and Brian for a little intellectual stimulation. After the show was over (and let me say it touched me deeply. I am a better person today because of that show, whatever it was), Art had to go home. As Art was walking out the door, my mother returned from her errands.
Her suspicion raised, she immediately inquired as to whether I had practiced the piano. I gave the rote, infallible answer, “Yes.” Unbelievably, she asked me again. Still unperturbed, I responded again that I had. Then, she asked, “When?” While she was gone of course! I started to become greatly irritated and slightly nervous. Nothing like this interrogation had ever happened before. The Emperor had spoken, who was this vile creature that dared to question my word? But here she was, my mom becoming a regular super sleuth, like that lady in “Murder, She Wrote.”
I hadn’t committed murder, but you wouldn’t know it the way Mrs. Sherlock Holmes went about piecing together evidence, mostly from my own testimony. Isn’t there something in the Constitution against that? Unquestionably, there is, but as a hapless victim living in a tyrannical dictatorship, political documents were about as useful to me as sandpaper in a bathroom.
As Doom’s dark cloud began to surround me, tightening its grip, desperation set in. Telling lie after lie, I went further down into the Abyss. I was in so deep, I concluded that descending a little, or even a lot, further into the Black Void of Lies wouldn’t matter. I turned to the only surefire way of escape – an eyewitness.
Certainly, if I could produce an eyewitness to confirm the fact that I had practiced the piano, I could defeat the prodigious amount of mere circumstantial evidence my mother was amassing. The small, but disturbing, fact that I had never actually practiced the piano was irrelevant. Like the Grinch, when he couldn’t find a reindeer, I made my witness, instead. My unwitting conspirator would be nine year-old Brian. He just didn’t know it – yet.
As I made a beeline for his locale in the basement, I congratulated myself on the brilliance of my plan. For in presenting Brian as my alibi, I would also eliminate the possibility that he could be asked by my maternal Agatha Christie if he had heard me playing the piano during her absence. In fact, I couldn’t believe Mom had failed to see my brother as the obvious instrument of my undoing. “Too late for her,” I thought as I whizzed down the stairs.
I minced no words with Brian. I let him know that the situation was critical. The only way to snatch me from the Jaws of Death was to march upstairs, go straight to Mom and tell her, “I heard David practice the piano today.” My wild eyes told him there would be no discussing or debating my orders.
Dragging him to the stairs, I sent him straightaway to my mom. After my veracious, irreproachable witness delivered his deposition, I would be able to stand unshaken before my accuser. I listened intently as Brian spoke:
“I….(wavering)…think….(fidgeting) …..he……might…..have…. practiced….(still greater wavering and fidgeting)….the………piano?”
Doomed! That was it! My star witness plan had backfired. How could this have happened? What is worse than believing you’ve nearly escaped, only to slip back into the grasp of your pursuer?
Now, with nothing to do but fearlessly face the executioner, I turned to mine with knees knocking and teeth clattering. My “Spider Sense” was going off of the scale this time. Danger was near and there was no escape. This was the whopper. I had bet everything, including the tender epidermis of my posterior, on number 7 and the wheel stopped on 13.
Time stood still. My mind was awash. I was in a trance. When I finally drifted back to the physical world, I found myself standing at attention in the middle of the kitchen with Brian next to me. Yes, Brian. Brutus! Judas! Benedict Arnold! It was all HIS fault. If only HE were a better liar, I wouldn’t be in this mess.
There was no time to worry about a fitting punishment for him. Deep within myself, I was contemplating my own castigation. I shivered at the thought of what would happen when my father returned from the Pentagon. I hadn’t received a single swat from Mom. That was not good. She was waiting for Dad. Eons passed. Finally, the silence was broken by the purr of an engine as my father's car pulled into the carport.
He stepped into the kitchen. The true culprit, Brian, would receive less than half the number of swats that were coming to me. Oh, the Humanity! Life is always cruelest to those who live close to the edge. Dad explained that “causing Brian to lie” was even worse than my own lies. Now I was responsible for Brian not being nominated for an Academy Award! The question was not whether an Oscar was in Brian's future, but whether he had a future at all. My own future wasn't looking very promising either.
This time, I would need each and every fat cell on my backside to do its duty. I’ve always been self-conscious about having a rather round derriere. It’s possible my distinguishing feature developed as a result of natural body defense mechanisms – a reaction to protect an exposed, vulnerable and frequently assaulted rump. I like to believe that I commanded myself in a dignified manner throughout the entire ordeal. That is, I didn’t jump around the room like a jackrabbit and add additional, painful swats to my total. It all ended quickly.
Thinking I had survived the totality of my punishment, my spirits were up. However, when I returned downstairs, my mother announced that, in order to satisfy the full measure of my punishment, there was an additional task for me to perform. “Starting each day, as soon as you return from school,” she declared, “you will pull every weed in our yard.” I gasped at the unfairness of it all. It’s one thing to be punished for punishment’s sake, but this was slave labor. I thought slavery had been outlawed over one hundred years ago, but here, in the sanctuary of my own home, the vile practice was resurrected. Worst of all, I was the slave! I have always thought it a bit unrighteous to benefit from another’s misfortune. Now, my own mother was using me as her personal gardener under the pretense that I was being rightfully punished.
From that day forward, I would view my confinement in school from a different perch. School was no longer a prison where my brain would fight to repel assaults from math, English and social studies. Laurel Ridge Elementary became Nirvana; a sanctuary from the heat, the sweat, and the boredom of pulling stubborn, prickly weeds. The punishment wouldn’t have been half bad except that I had the temerity to believe I could actually finish the job. How many tasks did Hercules have to perform? Twelve? Let me tell you, if one of his tasks was to pull every weed in our yard, he would have quit right there on the spot. I don’t want to degrade the efforts of my parents to create a beautiful lawn, but after years of fertilizer, weekend gardening forays, and about a dump truck load of Weed-B-Gone, they achieved an enviable lawn of about ten percent grass and ninety percent weeds. As I scanned the lawn after days of laboring, it became obvious that the weeds were spreading faster than I could pull them up.
Thankfully, my father was reassigned to Ft. Huachuca, Arizona. His new assignment cut my punishment from a triple-life sentence to three weeks at hard labor. Did I learn my lesson? It would be disingenuous to say I have remained completely honest since that day I was caught, but thereafter, I have striven to be more truthful.
Proving that humans are able to overcome the negative psychological conditioning that occurred during their youth, I took up playing the piano again in my thirties. Some days I've been known to practice for hours. Since I still display less talent than a trained parrot and I play the same songs over and over, I might be accused of seeking revenge against family members for the events of years ago. Nothing could be further from the truth. I truly enjoy playing the piano, even if some family members wish that I would just promise to practice, but not actually do it.
